The bus pulls out after midnight. I’m itching to sleep, to wake up at the border and go through the motions of reentry into my country of origin. In Montréal there’s someone waiting. But traffic isn’t moving, and I can’t settle down
And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough. The ones who don’t fit in. The ones I see my own face in.
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